


Every Day, For the Rest of Their Lives

by kahootqueen69



Series: Through the Bedroom Window [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: As you do, Fluff and Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon Fix-It, Recovery, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, Trauma, these sad old men wouldn't stop occupying my mind so i had to..., you know... make a whole series of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:07:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24860545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kahootqueen69/pseuds/kahootqueen69
Summary: They had dutifully written to each other for a couple of months, asked how the other was doing, how they were each getting on. But communication had fallen silent eventually, apart from the certain mandatory Admiralty events.That was months ago, now.ORRescues are made. Letters are written. Francis and James are fools pining for each other but don't realize it.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Series: Through the Bedroom Window [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1798666
Comments: 14
Kudos: 50





	Every Day, For the Rest of Their Lives

The journey home had been hard, their recovery a long one.

Just when they thought they were never going to make it, never escape the icy wind and blinding white, rescue found them. Soaked with blood and exhausted by the weight on their shoulders—both that of their sleds and of their minds—they fell into their rescuers’ arms.

It was Ross who had found them. Francis had begged him that they treat James first and get him stable before talking about what happened, what went so terribly wrong. They never told them the whole truth, of course. Bits and pieces of it, yes, the important bits. But never about the Tuunbaq, what it had done to them. To Ross and his men, Tuunbaq was only a bear—an unnaturally strong and big one, a different species of polar bear, maybe.

The last remaining men of Franklin’s expedition had recovered enough for the walk back to Ross’ ships, though still tired and not quite hale. But enough to walk and haul their most ill. They got proper treatment aboard the ships, proper food prepared with the greatest care.

Francis never left James’ side. First in sickbay, then moved to a cabin, shared between the two of them. James was wrecked with a persistent fever all the way from their camp to the ships, only lifting after they’d set sail for almost a fortnight. Pale like a corpse and sweating furiously, haunted by nightmares of the frozen land and the spirit-bear that walked upon it, by the haul that never seemed to end and old wounds that did not want to close.

When his fever lifted, Francis had cried with joy—only in James’ presence, for this was no one’s business but their own. He had held James’ too thin hand and stroked his thumb over the veins, whispering things that only they were allowed to hear. He had helped James regain some of his strength, was there with him when he set his feet back on deck and took his first steps to recovery.

James had gripped Francis’ arm when they docked in London’s port, looking at him with wide eyes, full of questions. Francis had given him a reassuring look—always the gentleman, the captain. He had helped James down the steps, shared a cab with him and seen to it that James got to his chambers alright. Neither of them really wanted to part ways, but what was there to do? And so they exchanged their goodbyes, gotten each other’s address for sending letters, and Francis took off again, back to his own chambers.

They had dutifully written to each other for a couple of months, asked how the other was doing, how they were each getting on. But communication had fallen silent eventually, apart from the certain mandatory Admiralty events.

That was months ago, now.

Today, James’ clothes still hang a little loosely around his body. He still needs a cane to get about. The fall on the shale of King William Island had shattered his kneecap, and the injury still pains him—especially on colder days. He can’t see very well with his bad eye—the one where the blood kept seeping through—and his scars still pull and sting at his skin. But this doesn’t stop him from pacing around in his study, wearing down the carpet in front of the fire.

There are certain things he cannot remember about their long trek over the ice and rocks, about their rescue—taken from his memory, shredded to little pieces and burned to ashes. What he does remember is the closeness between him and Francis, and the absence of it now. He also remembers a certain night on _Terror_ , in Francis’ cabin. Francis knows of his memory loss. James does not know what exactly Francis knows he has forgotten, and what not.

He looks back at the paper and ink on his writing desk, biting the inside of his cheeks. _Does he regret that night, the intimacy that we shared?_ He tears his gaze away from the writing set and starts pacing again, ignoring the aching in his knee. The clock in the hallway strikes ten. _It’s late, what in heaven’s name am I doing?_ He falls down on the arm chair with a heavy sigh, rubbing the back of his hand through his bad eye.

***

He only meant to rest his eyes for a bit. Instead, the clock striking eleven startles him from another nightmare. One of the gentler ones, though the cold still creeps at the back of his neck.

‘Christ,’ he grumbles.

He’ll have a crick in his back now, that’s for sure. James reaches for his cane—the trustworthy thing resting against the side of the chair—and pushes himself up, grunting at the stiffness in his muscles and bones. He stands still for a moment, orienting himself, letting his eye adjust to the depth of the world. _That letter can wait another day_ , he thinks, before setting out to do his nightly routines.

The unwritten letter remains at the back of his mind through the night. No matter how much he twists and turns, sleep won’t claim him. It gnaws at him, begging for an answer. _Does he not feel the same way anymore? Was it just a release of tension, of stress? Why does he not write? Has he moved on? Proposed to Sophia again?_ That must be it, mustn’t it? Finally gotten the right answer from her. He can picture it already; Francis, at the altar, Sophia’s hands in his own. And later, with a couple of mini-versions of himself and Sophia, running about the house—the house that they live in, together.

Tears well in James’ eyes. No, he mustn’t think of it. He should be happy for him—Francis is the person who knows him best, after all, knows everything about him. He could at least do him the favour of being happy for him.

Though he can’t help but think; Francis at the altar, but this time, holding James’ hands. Buying a house together, maybe in the countryside, away from all the noise and gossip. A quiet place just for the two of them, maybe the little Rosses running about—whom Francis loves so much, judging from his past letters. _That would be nice, wouldn’t it?_

With that train of thought, James drifts off into sleep.

***

It’s raining when James wakes again, he can feel the cold in the air brush over his cheeks. He pulls the sheets and extra quilt up higher over his face, already feeling the slight ache in his knees and other joints. He won’t be going anywhere today, not while the weather is like this.

There’s a knock on the bedroom door, soft but clear.

‘Come in,’ James rasps, his voice rough with sleep.

His maid, Anna, comes in, carrying a tray with tea and some toast. As usual, in the mornings—James’ stomach still doesn’t agree with him on most days, toast is really the only thing he can manage to eat during the early hours.

‘Shall I open the curtains, sir?’

‘No. No, that’s fine. Thank you, Anna.’ James sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. ‘I think I’m going to sleep a while longer, see if the rain clears before I get up.’

Anna nods and curtsies swiftly, closing the door behind her, letting James be. She knows about some of his ailments—not all of them, just the necessary ones. Only Francis knows about them all, has seen them all.

_Francis…_

The letter—he still has to write that letter! At once, all his thoughts from last night come drifting back up to the surface again, and James groans softly. He doubts if he should even write it, just leave Francis be. He’s sure he’ll be happier without a limping, battered, so-called ‘friend’ to worry about.

But he needs answers. He has to know, even if those answers will hurt him more than the not knowing does.

So, James pushes himself up in bed—tugging the sheets and quilt up even higher—and starts the arduous task of munching on his toast, sipping his tea. _This shouldn’t be this hard. How long has it been? Three months? Six?_ He doesn’t even remember, not that it matters much anyway. He gets the job done, even if it takes him a good twenty minutes and a lot of convincing himself to do so.

He gets out of bed with a great effort, washing up and dressing himself, making himself presentable—if only for himself, and the maid. It takes longer on days like these, the cold and his aches slowing him down enormously.

He gives Anna a grateful smile when she comes to retrieve the tray—no, no he doesn’t need anything else right now, no, really, he is fine, truly. Of course, he is not, though he needn’t burden her with yet another of his failures.

Sitting down at his writing desk for the fifth time in two days, James unscrews the cap of the little pot of ink for his pen to dip in. It fills itself with ink, held over the paper, waiting to create words, sentences, memories—perhaps regrets, too. Instead, the ink drips down onto the paper, creating stains, not words. _How do you start a letter like this?_

An abundance of words rush through his mind, though none are the right ones. He writes and crosses out a great deal, growing more frustrated by the minute. It’s only after an hour that he decides to just _write_ , and not stop until he’s said everything, gotten every word and emotion out of his system.

He does not look at it again, seals the envelope and hands it to Anna with trembling hands.

***

_My dearest Francis,_

_I cannot begin to try and tell you how I’ve missed your company, or your letters. It has been a long while since I have last received one of you, and it pains me greatly not to know why._

_I know I am not the best company, I am far from it, but I have always taken comfort in your presence. Both back on the ice, and here in London. Is it terribly selfish of me to ask for your friendship, your brotherhood, as we had shared it on the ice?_

_I do not know why you have decided not to write any longer, though I can think of a great many reasons. You do not owe me a reply, in fact, you do not owe me anything. It is I who owe you my life, though I ask of you only one thing; Tell me why, please. I beg of you._

_I have confessed to you a great many things, and though you do not say it, I feel you must despise me for them._

_You know I cannot recollect all that happened to us out on the ice or the journey back home, that there are holes in my remembrance of things. But I do remember a certain night in particular, one in_ Terror _’s great cabin, to be specific. You were so awfully worn through, we both were, but we found comfort in each other. I wish to share that kind of comfort again. If not fully, I will gladly satisfy myself with some other version of it._

_I would hear of you again._

_Forever yours truly,_

_J.F._

***  
Days go by without an answering letter—days spent in bed, anxiously waiting, consumed by the possible outcome. He could barely breathe, feeling like he was getting suffocated by his own uncertainties. It had been a lovely few days, though James had barely seen anything of it. He could only think of Francis, of what he might think upon reading the letter James had written him.

And so, James lays in bed another day, thinking of Francis yet again. A sharp knock at the door, and Anna comes in.

‘Sir, there’s this gentleman at the door for you.’

He shoots upright at that, ignoring the aches in his bones and the stiffness of his muscles.

‘Who is it?’

‘He didn’t say, sir. Only said he had gotten a letter from you.’

‘Oh, Christ in heaven—’ James mutters, running a hand over his face. ‘Well, show him in! Uh, give him some tea in the drawing room, and tell him I’ll be right there.’

He had been so busy morbing over that letter he hadn’t even thought that Francis might actually show up at his doorstep! He jumps out of bed, almost toppling himself over, and rushes to get himself presentable. He changes into his nicest waistcoat and trousers, does his hair—it hasn’t gotten its former flair back entirely, but it’ll do—and grabs his cane.

Standing in front of the door, he takes a deep couple of breaths, steadying himself, gripping his cane a little tighter. He closes his eyes, takes one last breath and opens the door into the drawing room.

His eyes search the room—it’s not big, but it feels different, somehow—and there, by the window, is Francis, looking out towards the street. James’ breath hitches.

‘Francis—’ His voice is barely a whisper, having lost all its power with which he used to gather their crew in an instant.

Francis whips his head around—he didn’t even hear James come in—and pulls his back straight, hands tucked into the small of his back.

‘James.’

James almost falters at hearing his name, spoken in that familiar Irish brogue he’s come to love so much, and hasn’t heard in months.

‘I—’ His mind is reeling. The only thing he can feel right now is the hammering of his heart in his chest and his nails digging into his palms. He shifts his weight onto his cane and clears his throat.

‘How have you been? I—We haven’t talked in some time.’

He can see the flinch in Francis’ face, the furrow of his brows.

‘I—I’ve been well. Been staying with the Rosses, as you know.’ Francis’ stiff posture doesn’t ease, James wishes it would.

‘Good, good. I, uh—Please, sit. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’

James lowers himself in one of the arm chairs, grunting softly. Francis hesitates, but sits down opposite James anyway. Neither of them know where to go from this point on. The silence is only broken by the rattle of Francis’ teacup touching the wood of the little table next to him.

‘What brings you here?’ _What a stupid question_ , he might as well hurl himself out the window right this second. It wouldn’t be hard, just get up right now and do it. Would be better for the both of them.

Francis’ frown deepens, his hands start fidgeting with the arms of his chair. ‘I think we both know why I’ve come, James,’ he says softly.

James feels his face flush and looks down at his lap, where his own hands have started fidgeting. He screws his eyes shut, takes a ragged breath. ‘Right then. Let’s get it over with—Why have you stopped writing, or visiting? I think I can guess why, I would still like to hear it, though.’

‘I had some time to think—’ Francis starts. James can feel the world disappearing under his feet right at that moment. ‘—And I had come to realise some things.’ He looks up at James, his brow twitching in its familiar stance. ‘I am old, James. I have been at sea for nigh-on forty years and am broken by it. I have fits of melancholy so great I can barely get out of bed some days. I am no longer the man I once was, you should not have to put up with that.’

James feels his jaw going slack, his eyes growing big. His fidgeting stops. ‘Francis, you—’ He’s speechless, doesn’t know how to process this information. ‘I had thought—that I—that you had come to think of me as excess baggage in your happiness.’ His words are barely audible.

‘Excess—? James, I could never think of you that way. What makes you—’

‘I thought you might want to pursue your proposal to miss Cracroft.’

Francis blinks, taking in James’ words.

‘I—I do not think I will pursue that course of action any time soon. If ever, to be quite frank.’

‘What—what are you saying, Francis?’ James bites his bottom lip, already chapped from the previous nights of doing the same.

‘I am saying—’ Francis takes a deep breath. ‘I am saying that someone other has settled into the place she once possessed in my heart. Some time ago, in fact. After we set sail, even before a—a certain night in _Terror_ ’s great cabin.’

James’ eyes are burning treacherously. He wills the tears away, blinking furiously. ‘But I—I thought—’ He swallows harshly, tensing his jaw. ‘I am not—could not possibly deserve your feelings towards me, however much I want it. Look at me, I am stretched thin and cannot eat even the most simplest of things. My eye deceives me of the look and depth of things and I cannot stand for longer than a couple of minutes, even with a cane! I do not—’

James’ breath hitches and his throat catches, and the tears come anyway, no matter how much he tries to stop them. He makes a strangled noise at the back of his throat, hiding his face behind his hands.

He flinches at the feeling of Francis’ hand on his thigh, looking at him with bewildered eyes. He must have gotten up when James looked away, kneeling besides him.

‘You cannot possibly think I care about any of that. Christ, James, you are still the handsomest man in the Navy. If not to others, at least to me.’

‘I am a fraud, Francis. I do not deserve your kindness.’

‘I recall a conversation about the same topic, during a walk across King William Island. I will say the same to you now as I did back then; I challenge any biographer to tally up your acts of valor and then call you a fake.’

A wheezing sound forms itself in James’ throat. He has to look away from those clear blue eyes, or else he’ll get lost in that ocean of emotions that swims in them.

‘How I have missed you, James. There was not a day that passed when I did not think of you.’

‘Then pray tell me, why did you not write? You must know how I feel about you.’

‘I told you, James. I do not—You deserve someone younger, not an old coot like me.’

James shakes his head, looks back at Francis, into those eyes that he could just about drift away on forever. ‘I do not care in the slightest. Francis, there is no one like you out there. And I think I may have fallen hopelessly in love with you.’

‘I quite think you have, and so have I,’ Francis grins, that blasted tooth gap that James so loves peeking out just slightly.

James can’t help but smile, a nervous laugh shuddering out on his breath. He lays a hand on top of Francis’, and their fingers slot together perfectly—as if it was always meant to be. _Perhaps it was_ , James thinks.

‘I’ve been quite the fool, James. I should not have abandoned you as I did, leave you doubting yourself while it was me who was acting like a senseless fool.’

‘We both were, Francis. Do not put yourself down like that.’ James smiles softly, hoping it shows some of the reassurance he’s trying to give Francis.

Francis squeezes his hand gently, laying his other hand on top of their joined ones. ‘I am sorry, James. Even if we were both being foolish, I would like to apologize.’

‘I do not blame you in the slightest, though I want to apologize as well. I hope you can forgive me my selfishness.’

‘There is nothing to forgive you of, for you have not done anything wrong, nor were you selfish. Though if it would put your mind at ease, I will.’

James smiles, a sigh escaping his lips. All that weight that had been there, on his shoulders, since their rescue and return to England—finally, all of it has gone.

‘James, I would like—Can I—?’

The way the corners of Francis’ lips twitch, James knows exactly what he would like. ‘Yes, you absolutely can, you old fool,’ he laughs.

Francis looks baffled for a moment before he joins him in his laughter. He gets to his feet and cups James’ cheek, brushing his thumb over the skin, creased with affection. Finally—after all that time since that night on _Terror_ —their lips are joined in a kiss once again.

After they inevitably have to break the kiss to breathe, James presses their foreheads together, closing his eyes. He has his arms loosely around Francis’ neck, brushing the tips of his fingers through the short hairs present there. He feels so blessed right at that moment.

His teeth worry at his bottom lip again, considering things.

‘I do not wish to rush things, but—would you like to spend the night? Nothing need happen, to be quite honest I am far too worn out for any of that. It is just—I would like to have you close, after all this. But I understand if—’

James’ sentence is cut short by Francis kissing him again, pulling a soft gasp out of James.

‘No need to ramble on, James. Yes, I would very much like to spend the night.’ Francis flashes that bloody handsome smile again, and James just about swoons into his arms.

The little lines around James’ eyes crease with his smile, making him look even more handsome to Francis.

‘I do have a maid, Anna, but she is very discreet. I made sure of that when I hired her. She won’t make any fuss, I am sure.’

‘I have no doubt of that,’ Francis chuckles affectionately. ‘I’ll have to send word to the Rosses that I’ll be staying here for the night. Could I use your writing set?’

 _You can use anything that you like_ , James thinks. Instead, he gives him a small nod and a smile, releasing Francis from his grasp. While Francis is off writing to his hosts, James calls for Anna to let her know Francis will be joining him for dinner and stay the night. Since the place doesn’t have a second bedroom, Anna knows exactly what the plan is. She gives James a small, warm smile.

‘I’ll ready the bed then, sir, and put out an extra nightshirt.’

James smiles, grateful for her discretion. ‘Thank you.’

***

James hasn’t had such a good time during dinner in a long while, sharing stories and sweet smiles with Francis. He hasn’t eaten this much in some time, either. It seems Francis manages to improve not only his mood, but his physical health as well—what can be helped, with time, at least.

After dinner, they had sat next to each other in front of the fire, a cup of tea in hand each. Their banter was easy, their laughter full and bright—enjoying each other’s company once more. James had grown tired earlier than usual—anxiety and stress still took more of a toll on him than he’d like to admit—and Francis had suggested they retire for the night.

Francis helps James to his feet and to the bedroom, the bed newly made and an extra shirt waiting for Francis.

‘My shirts are still the size I used to wear before we set out for the Passage, so I think it should fit you well enough.’ James’ smile is a shy one, one that Francis can’t help but kiss.

‘I haven’t gotten back to my old weight either, I think they’ll be fine.’

James nods. He lets Francis help him out of his clothes, and back in his nightshirt—doing the same in return for Francis. It’s the little things that make him feel so ridiculously warm inside, the domesticity of them.

They settle into bed—a little awkward at first, not quite knowing how to go about things yet. They opt for laying on their sides, facing each other, talking about this and that for a while longer. Their conversation inevitably turns to the expedition after some time, about what they went through, and still go through to this day.

‘I still have nightmares, about everything. There are gentler ones, but most leave me in a state that isn’t quite so pretty,’ James confesses.

Francis’ eyes search James’ face, coming to rest on his eyes. He brushes a strand of hair from James’ face behind his ear. ‘I’ll be there if they come, chase them away.’

Their legs have long since they laid down together found each other and tangled, a reassuring touch. Francis’ arm has curled around James’ lower back, pulling him flush against his chest now. James smiles at the soft feeling of Francis’ tummy—that hasn’t quite been lost after everything, after all—and tucks his head under Francis’ chin.

They say nothing more, for nothing more needs saying. They fall asleep in each other’s arms, feeling warm and safe again for the first time since they last saw each other.


End file.
